


Outcast

by kierathefangirl



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: High School AU, M/M, hetalia AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 13:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6470884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kierathefangirl/pseuds/kierathefangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is the school outcast (because he has a British accent & is really smart). Alfred approaches him to ask for help with an English essay. Friendship begins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. English Essay (Alfred's POV)

**Author's Note:**

> Listening to "Come Home" by One Republic.
> 
> First person POVs.
> 
> Youtube link to "Come Home": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kvA7Ej9N_5Y

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred is stuck on his essay. (Mentioned--has a crush on Arthur.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, really short, just an intro. First time Alfred is considering talking to Arthur.

I shoot the Brit a glance from across the class—he seems to already have finished his essay somehow. _Maybe I could ask—hell no. Seriously, you wanna look like a fool to your crush? At least not in class, dumbass._

I drop my head on my hands, sighing. _I can’t even finish one stupid essay. Fuck my life. I can’t even talk to my crush, for God’s sake. Come on, Alfred, you’ve had a crush on him since the beginning of the damn year. Just talk to the guy. You never know, maybe he’ll like you._

I close my eyes, frustrated. _Can’t finish an essay and I can’t ask anyone but him because the others’ll laugh at me for sure. Oh, this is a mess. Grow up and just talk to him._


	2. English Class (Arthur's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur notices Alfred looking around for help on his essay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. Introduces the character.

I glance across the room. Alfred has his head in his arms again, but he’s not quite asleep. More like he’s talking to himself. _Weird. He’s actually awake during English for once._

He lifts his head and rubs his eyes, looking around at the others in the class with almost a pleading eye. His eyes linger on me for just a second longer than the rest before he drops his eyes with a sigh.

I shake my head, doodling idly in my sketchbook. _Clearly, he’s stuck again. And since we have a sub today, the teacher can’t help him out. Of course. So he’s looking to his classmates for help—and I’m the only one who’s done. But he’s popular, there’s no way in hell he’d talk to an outcast like me._


	3. Lunch (Arthur's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunch the day after the essay was assigned, Alfred finally talks to Arthur. Alfred is terrible at essays! :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer than the first two. Next chapter's at least 7 pages long (on Microsoft Word, 10 pt. Times New Roman, so...), so it's even longer than this one.

I close my locker with a sigh, leaning back against the metal. It’s not like I have any friends to hang with or any food to eat. This is the second day since we’ve been assigned the essay, and it’s supposed to take five days. _We were expected to finish in one day in London,_ my brain protests.

I close my eyes, shoving my hands in my pockets and turning my phone over and over in my hand. _I still don’t like it here. I finished school in London when I was six, just before we moved, whereas most graduate at seventeen—eleven to seventeen. I started at three! But here, six to eighteen is normal. And I really don’t like it. They dumb everything down here._

A locker closes across the hall. I hear people laughing up the hall and someone calls, “Hey, Brit, say ‘bellybutton’!”

I sink back into the lockers. They say the same thing every day, they never stop laughing at my accent.

I mutter under my breath, “Just leave me alone.”

I hear tentative footsteps approaching then Alfred’s voice reaches me. “Erm...hi.”

I open my eyes, looking up and murmuring, “Hello.”

Alfred smiles nervously. “Um...I’m kinda stuck and you’re done with the essay, so...could you help?”

I push off the lockers. “Why would you want _my_ help?”

Alfred blushes scarlet. “Everyone else would laugh at me.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Some people catch on slower than others.”

He shrugs. “I know. But they don’t care.”

I take a step back so I can better take him in. He looks embarrassed but also hopeful at the same time.

I run a nervous hand through my hair. “I suppose I could try. I learnt everything when I was three, I was in British school for three years and finished what takes everyone else seven. I just don’t know how to explain it very well.”

Relief washes over his face. “I’ve written a couple drafts but I don’t think I got the point across.”

He leads the way over to an empty table and pulls out what he’s written so far. Instantly I see where he went wrong. “No, that’s improper. You shouldn’t use text speak in an essay, write it out. Here.”

I point out several points where he used letters (mainly “af”) instead of words. “You don’t use that in a formal essay, it makes you look kinda stupid. Try rewording that sentence to get rid of that.”

I walk him back through and slowly the essay comes together, much more formal and with a lot more effort in it.

He scans over it. “It sounds so fancy.”

I shrug. “That’s how it’s supposed to sound. You want to sound intelligent, not like a five year old.”

Alfred flushes scarlet, smiling shyly. “I suppose so.”


	4. Alfred (Arthur's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred defends Arthur's honor against a bully, then invites him over to his house. They talk some. Alfred is horrified to discover Arthur doesn't know what alfredo is and decides to fix that immediately. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much longer than the first two. Much. Longer.
> 
> Arthur's POV.

I sink down in my seat, casting a glance around. The only open seat is by me, and Alfred’s the only one left standing. _Of course. Just my luck. The popular American. Seriously, I’m the British outcast! Why does he keep talking to me?_

Alfred hands in his essay, which instantly strikes up a conversation with the teacher.

One of the Americans that bullies me turns around. “Did little Alfie ask the poor little Brit for help?”

I glance up at him. “What’s it to you? All you ever do is push me around.”

“Ha,” the American laughs. “So Alfie can’t even do an essay without asking the little baby for help? How pathetic.”

I raise my gaze enough to glare at him. “Don’t drag him into this. What’s he ever done to you?”

“Oh, he’s done enough just by talking to you,” he chuckles. “Too late to turn back now.”

My eyes narrow. “Leave. Him. _Alone._ You’re talking to me, does that mean you hate yourself?”

His eyes widen with surprise and anger. “Hey!”

I shrug casually. “By your logic.”

He punches hard, catching my jaw. I shove it back in place, licking the blood off my teeth. “Shut up!”

“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath.

Alfred comes back just in time to stop him from punching again. He turns around with a huff, arms crossed and pencil laying, untouched, on the table in front of him.

I shake my head, my fingers lightly brushing my aching jaw. Alfred flops down. “Hey.”

I glance at him. “Hey.”

He sighs, shooting me a smile. “First time I’ve ever gotten an essay in early. Usually I’m late.”

“You could just ask for help, you know,” I suggest lightly. “It’s not gonna kill you just to ask.”

Alfred shrugs, smiling nervously. “You have no idea. Kids nowadays.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Believe me, I’ve dealt with enough of them to know.”

Alfred pauses. “You’ve got blood on your teeth, you okay?”

I run my tongue over my teeth again. “Don’t worry about it. I’m used to it.”

He frowns. “Doesn’t make it okay.”

I shake my head. “Only hurts a little.”

I jerk my head up towards the American. “There’s always someone pushing me around.”

Alfred’s eyes flick towards him. “Doesn’t make it okay, though, even if you’re used to it.”

I shrug. “They always find a reason. My accent, usually. Not like I _chose_ my accent. I was born with it.”

Alfred scoffs. “Your accent isn’t a judge of character. Just like mine has nothing to do with who I am, your accent doesn’t affect who you are. They’re missing out. You’re cool.”

I glance at him. _Cool? Seriously?_

He smiles nervously. “Cool doesn’t mean popular. Being popular just means you’re acquainted with basically everyone. Being cool isn’t popular, it’s just being _cool._ ”

I shoot him a glance, pushing my glasses back up. _Wait...is he, like, flirting with me?_

Alfred shrugs. “Besides, they’re probably just jealous that you’re smarter than them.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I can’t argue with that.”

Alfred smiles again, that nervous smile you have when talking to someone new. “Yeah.”

There’s a silence broken only by the clicking of keyboards, the tapping of fake nails on the desks.

Alfred breaks the silence after a minute. “So you were born in England?”

I nod. “London, yeah.”

Alfred’s eyes widen a little. “Is it as big as they say?”

I shrug. “Compared to here? Yes. Compared to other big cities...not so much.”

He sits up for once, eyes alert. “What’s school like?”

I consider it. “Very different. Your parents teach you until you’re eleven, then you go to school. You graduate when you’re seventeen, then you go to college or into the work force from there.”

“Did you go to college?”

I raise an eyebrow. “I was six, but yes. And I only had a year there—and still got a degree. After that, we moved here. School is kinda dumbed down compared to theirs. Like, we had one day to get a five-page essay done, and we all got it done on time. Everyone did their homework and we just corrected it and moved on. Here, you get five days for a five _paragraph_ essay, and homework is gone over so you can get the answers right anyway even if you don’t understand a thing.”

Alfred smiles shyly. “Yeah. That makes us look kinda uneducated.”

“Have you even reached the second World War? Not yet. We reached that the second year. Here, you don’t reach it until about tenth or eleventh grade. Which is about when we’d already be graduating.”

Alfred blushes crimson and shrugs. “They do move a bit slow, I guess.”

“More than a bit,” I allow. “They move less than half the pace we do.”

“Stop showing off,” the American hisses.

Alfred glances at him. “Hey, shut up. Just cause you’re stupid doesn’t mean you should be down on him.”

I drop my gaze as he slowly turns. “I’m not the one who went to the baby Brit for help, Alfie. Can’t even write an essay yourself, how pathetic.”

I nudge Alfred. “Don’t get involved, please.”

Alfred shoots me a glance. “He shouldn’t treat you like that.”

“He has been since elementary school,” I shrug. “Not much has changed, except the topic.”

Alfred’s eyes narrow a little. “ _That’s_ pathetic. At least I have the guts to ask for help when I’m stuck, Kingston.”

The American sneers at him. “I’m not stuck. Just taking my time. We have five days, ya nitwit.”

Alfred doesn’t back down, raising an eyebrow. “And? If we all get done before then, we can move on.”

“Who says I want to?”

Alfred scoffs. “You’re pathetic. Grow up.”

He stiffens. I cringe a little. No one _ever_ talks to him like that.

He spits, “How _dare you_ speak to me with that tone?”

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath and praying he won’t hurt Alfred. This is the first time anyone’s ever stood up for me, I don’t want it to end badly. _Keep him safe._

A finger pokes my shoulder hard and I look up. Kingston— _is that what he called him?_ —has a finger on my shoulder and is talking angrily to Alfred.

I pull away, sliding back a little from him. _Just breathe. Panicking isn’t gonna help._

“Oh, shut up. You try to act all tough but in reality, you need help.”

Kingston splutters, “Who are you to judge me, when you have to ask _that one_ for help?”

I wince, closing my eyes. _Remember, it’s his problem. It’s not really me._

“Who are you to judge him, when you refuse to ask for help?”

He scoffs, poking hard at me. “At least I don’t have to ask that one.”

I wince, mouthing, “ _Ow._ ”

Alfred glances at me. “Stop touching him.”

Kingston scoots over to our desk, close enough that when he swings, my shoulder dislocates under the pressure.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter under my breath, scooting further back.

Alfred catches Kingston’s fist as he tries to swing again, his tone lowering to almost a growl. “Leave. Him. Alone.”

Kingston yanks his fist out of Alfred’s hand. “Looks like little Artie made a friend!”

I sigh, ignoring the faint throbbing in my shoulder and raising my voice just enough to be heard. “Shut up, asshole.”

Kingston smirks. “Make me.”

_He knows I won’t cause he means punch him, fight back. I’m a gentleman, we don’t do that._

I roll my eyes. “Just shut up. I haven’t any time for you right now.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow at Kingston. “You heard him. Shut the hell up.”

I shove my shoulder back in place, wincing. _Ow. I know hate is a strong word and all, but I hate that damn American. Doesn’t look like Alfred’s gonna let him bully me, though._

Kingston pulls my glasses off. Everything goes blurry again, and I groan a little. “Give me my glasses back.”

Kingston laughs. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

I shake my head. “I’m legally blind without them, I can’t see anything.”

“Three,” Alfred answers for me, pressing my glasses into my hand. “And I told you to leave him alone.”

I slide my glasses back on. Alfred pushes his glasses on, glaring challengingly at him.

Kingston rolls his eyes. The bell rings and Kingston is gone instantly, vanishing out the door.

I drop my head in my hands, waiting until everything stops spinning. Every time I put my glasses back on, _every damn time_ , my head spins. I hate this.

I release a slow breath, dragging my bag into my lap. _I wish he’d just leave me alone._

Alfred lightly touches my shoulder. “You okay?”

I lift my head a little. “Just dizzy. Happens every time I put my glasses back on.”

I shake my head, rubbing my eyes a little.

Alfred swings his backpack on. “Wanna come to my place? Dad’s a doctor.”

I rise slowly to my feet, pulling my backpack on. “I’d have to ask my parents. They’re ‘proper British folk’.”

“Go ahead,” Alfred offers, smiling shyly.

I pull my phone out, sliding it open and bringing up Dad. **_Hey, is it okay if I go to a friend’s house and skip high tea today?_**

He responds in seconds. **_Of course._** **_Be back in time for supper._**

I shove my phone in my pocket. “Dad’s cool with it.”

Alfred smiles nervously. “That’s an old phone. It’s not even touchscreen. That’s, like, an old Blackberry slide thing. No one uses them anymore.”

I raise an eyebrow. “It’s the best my parents could afford when we got here. And they’ve been fighting upgrading it cause to them, there’s no point.”

Alfred shrugs. “If they didn’t buy takeout, my parents could afford any phone they want. They keep buying McDonald’s food.”

I roll my eyes. “It takes seven years to digest one meal’s worth of that.”

Alfred’s eyes widen. “Where’d you hear that?”

“London,” I answer lightly. “There’s a reason British food is better. It’s actually filling, and only takes a few hours to digest. It’s natural. And everything’s labeled, so finding allergen-free foods is much easier than here.”

Alfred grins. “British food’s always better.”

Heat prickles my cheeks and I smile shyly. “That’s giving us too much credit.”

He shrugs. “I don’t think so.”

I shake my head, letting him lead the way out the door. “I know a hell of a lot of people who’d argue with you.”

“It’s all a matter of personal taste,” Alfred allows. “But British fish and chips are the best.”

A faint smile plays on my lips. “I would agree, but I grew up on it.”

He angles off into the neighborhood across the street from school. “True. But I didn’t.”

I shoot him a glance. “There’s a few main differences between how the British make it and how Americans make it. More fat, more salt, and usually Americans cook it in a deep fryer full of bacon fat. It’s kinda disgusting if you think about it. It’s not like you need that much fat and salt. They just wanted to be different even though they liked the idea we had. Rebellious child, almost.”

He grins. “I suppose we are, yeah. Americans’ve even deep-fried butter. Like, plain sticks of butter.”

I shiver. “Ew.”

He laughs. “Yeah. Twinkies, too. Deep-fried candy bars. Anything they can bread and stick in a deep-fryer, they will. It’s kinda how the Southern people roll. We get our deep-fried stuff from them. Deep-fried fish, chicken, butter, Twinkies. You name it, they’ve got it.”

I frown. “Biscuits? Cookies?”

“Yes, actually, and it’s really gross.” Alfred shrugs. “Fried chocolate. It’s all melted and gooey inside and crunchy outside. It’s kinda good, but only as a dessert. People even eat doughnuts for breakfast.”

I shake my head. “That’s not filling. It’s gonna leave them hungry.”

“It does,” he agrees. “But they do it anyway cause it tastes good.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I would argue nutrition over taste, but I doubt any American would be convinced.”

“Dried kale and seaweed, though,” Alfred protests. “Some things are better left alone.”

I shrug. “Even I agree with that. But some things are supposed to be eaten. Like lettuce, which Americans tend to drench in dressing to the point they can’t even taste it anymore.”

“That’s kinda the point,” Alfred explains patiently. “They hate the taste so they cover it up.”

“That destroys the point of it,” I shrug casually. “If you bury it too much, you won’t get the nutrition out of it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “They feel better eating it so they can _say_ they did than actually getting anything _out of it_.”

I shake my head. “Ridiculous.”

Alfred hums in agreement. “Yeah. But that’s the American way, or so they say.”

“I take it you disagree?”

He nods. “The average American changes region to region, family to family. You’re still American, and so are your parents. But you’re far different from my family. And that’s okay. That’s what makes America great—it’s the people, the stories. The texture. People don’t really get that.”

I consider it silently, just wandering after him before saying anything. “I noticed.”

He glances at me. “How long have they been bullying you?”

“Since I got here.” I shrug. “Since I started kindergarten. The first time I spoke, they all laughed at my accent. The teacher kept them at bay, but then it got worse in middle school. The teachers never stepped in. Occasionally they got caught and the security made them do lines. But they didn’t care.”

“And now you’re in ninth, and they still haven’t stopped,” he finishes quietly.

I nod slowly. “Yeah. They just get worse the more I talk.”

He shakes his head. “That’s bullshit, one. And two, you shouldn’t just take what they throw at you. You deserve better. You’re better than them.”

I shake my head. “Not exactly better, just different. Besides, I don’t want to pick a fight. I never win.”

He pauses, turning towards the house to our right. “Only because you try not to fight.”

I shrug. “My parents told me not to. I’ve been trying, but they’re not making it easy on me.”

Alfred rolls his eyes. “They never do. That’s what bullies do. They try to make others feel bad to make themselves feel better, but the feeling is only temporary so they come back for more. It’s a never-ending cycle of madness.”

“So you can use _fancy_ words,” I tease lightly.

He flushes scarlet and grins. “Occasionally, yeah.”

We weave up the path to the run-down picket fence house. He opens the gate, sweeping inside and sidestepping to let me through. I cast a look around—I’ve never been close to any American houses before. I live in a neighborhood full of immigrants from Italy, Germany, England, Africa, and they all bring their home styles with them.

He bounces up the path, knocking lightly on the door.

The door pops open and a man with Alfred’s facial structure and a dark moustache pokes his head out the door. “Hey, welcome home, son.”

Alfred grins. “Hey, Dad.”

His father sidesteps to let us in. The house is messy—things are all over the floor and food is all over the counter. But it appears perfectly normal...even though it looks to me like a bomb went off or something.

Alfred pulls me in by the wrist, waving into the kitchen. “Hey, Mom!”

A woman’s voice calls back, “Welcome home! Stay in your room, we’re cleaning up today!”

“Okay,” he calls back, weaving through the mess to a door at the end of the hall before sliding inside, dropping my hand as soon as the door closes behind us.

I cast a curious glance around. A giant flat-screen TV dominates one wall, a computer on another, and a bed the other. The door and a closet take up the other wall. _It’s so crowded. Wow._

He shrugs. “They clean up once every two weeks. It gets messy within hours, though.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I noticed.”

He flushes scarlet and grins. “It’s normal ’round here. You don’t mind, do you?”

I shake my head. “Not really. Just a little more crowded than I’m used to. My mom’s a bit of a clean freak.”

Alfred grins, his cheeks tinged with pink. “Yeah.”

He flops down on the bed, pushing his glasses back up. “While I’m thinking about it. You’re legally blind?”

I shrug, sinking down onto the bed next to him. “I _can_ see. Sort of. It’s just so blurry, I’m far more likely to fall down stairs than see them. So, more for my safety than anything else, I was declared legally blind. I can’t see much without my glasses. They’re really high strength, too.”

He offers his glasses. “Can you see through these?”

I accept them, pulling mine off and sliding his on. “A little. Still like looking through a windshield on a rainy day, or looking through a wall of fire and smoke.”

He whistles. “Damn, your glasses are really thick. Here.”

He presses them into my hand and I trade back, pushing them back on. “I know they are. But they make it so I can see like a normal person. Better than nothing.”

He frowns. “Were you born almost blind?”

I shake my head. “I had glasses. But not near blind. Just a little blurry.”

Alfred settles down, dropping his backpack on the floor. “Some accident ruin your eyes?”

I shrug, setting my backpack on the floor in front of my feet. “Not an accident, really. Well, sort of. But not an accident like getting bleach in my eyes or something and suddenly ‘ _oh no I can’t see_ ’.”

He tilts his head. “Now I’m interested. What happened?”

I push my glasses back up, releasing a slow breath. “I was born needing glasses, but it was curable. Like, if I had glasses long enough it would just go away. It was how I was born.”

He nods. “Yeah. I get that. Same with these.”

He taps his glasses. I shrug. “But when I was seven...”

I sigh, shaking my head. “I’d just graduated college a couple days before. And I was out walking the city. I saw this semi truck barreling towards some kid in the street, and his grandmother. I didn’t think, I just moved. I knocked them out of the way. But I got hit, badly. Gasoline got on my eyes, burning them pretty bad. I lost most of my eyesight. My parents spent weeks finding glasses that made it so I could see again. I was in a wheelchair for months after we got here—which didn’t help at all with the bullies.”

I shrug casually. “I saved their lives. But I almost lost my eyesight entirely.”

He frowns. “One, those bullies are assholes. And two, seriously, that sucks. Isn’t there some eyedrop or something that could fix it? Medicine’s increased a lot in these past years.”

I shrug. “If there is, my parents can’t afford it.”

His frown deepens. “My dad’s a doctor. He could probably get it cheaper.”

I glance at him. “I can’t ask him to do that. It’s his money.”

Alfred rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but that’s his _job._ Taking care of kids just like us.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What, like an eye doctor?”

“Pediatrics,” he shrugs. “But he deals with a lot of kids with glasses.”

His dad pokes his head in. “Your mother worked really fast, house is already clean.”

Alfred nods. “’Kay.”

He disappears. Alfred shakes his head. “She does that sometimes.”

I run a hand through my hair, tugging lightly on my suit. It’s an army outfit my mom bought, and she thought it would make me feel stronger if I wore it. More like it makes me a better target for bullies.

Alfred is silent for a minute before he offers his hand. “Um, I’m Alfred. Alfred F. Jones.“

I slide my hand into his. “Arthur Kirkland.”

His touch lingers on my hand for a moment before we pull apart.

He yawns. “You hungry?”

I shrug. “I could eat.”

He slides off the bed. “Mom might’ve even made alfredo. Come on.”

I frown, sliding off the bed. “What’s alfredo?”

Alfred chokes. “You don’t know what alfredo is? Oh, the horror.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What? I’ve never heard of it.”

Alfred shakes his head. “It’s pasta with cheese. Italian, originally, with an American twist. Pasta’s all Italian. We’ve gotta remedy that immediately, jeez. Alfredo’s awesome.”

Yet again, he takes my hand to lead the way. _Why the hell...?_

His dad pokes his head out of the kitchen. “Hey, kiddo.”

Alfred pauses before coming to a quick decision and nudging me with his elbow. “Dad, this is Arthur. Arthur, Dad.”

I incline my head. His father smiles warmly. “Hello. Nice to see Alfred’s making friends this year.”

I smile shyly. “Hi.”

His father smiles faintly. “Alfred B. Jones. Call me Al.”

I answer softly, “Arthur Kirkland. Nice to meet you.”

Al smiles warmly. “Same to you.”

A young woman with Alfred’s hair and eye color pokes her head out of the kitchen. “Oh, hello there.”

Alfred flushes crimson and smiles at her. “Mom, this is Arthur Kirkland. Arthur, Mom.”

“Call me Kathryn,” she allow graciously. “Nice to meet you.”

Alfred smiles shyly. “He doesn’t know what _alfredo_ is, Mom.”

Kathryn’s eyes widen. “Oh, that can be remedied immediately. Come in, honey.”

She vanishes into the kitchen.

Alfred shrugs and follows her in, flopping down at the table. I sink down next to him, casting a glance around.

Yet again, the room is messy. A little less, but still messy. Ingredients are scattered over the counter, as are splatters of spilled food. It’s _unsanitary._

Alfred drops my hand, leaning his head in his hands with his elbows on the table. I just _know_ my parents would be horrified—‘proper Brits’ never have their elbows on the table.

I don’t put my elbows on the table, nor do I comment on him. It’s generally part of American culture to do so, but I can’t make myself do it.

She drops heaping plates around the table of white sauce with pasta, still just a little steamy.

Al reappears, settling down at the head of the table next to Kathryn.

Kathryn lifts a forkful of the strange food. “Bon appétit.”

She shoves the food in her mouth, and Al follows her example. Alfred lifts a little less on his fork than them, blowing on it a little before pulling it off the fork with his teeth.

I pick up a mouthful of the food, blowing on it softly until it’s cool enough not to burn my tongue before pulling it off the fork. _One food I actually like that Americans make, then,_ I consent. _It’s not bad, I’ll say that._


	5. Arthur's House (Alfred's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They go over to Arthur's house. ...Alfred admires the English roses. :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Alfred's POV.
> 
> Longer than first three but not as long as four.

Arthur takes a bite, blinking a little in surprise before picking up another. _He likes it. Success._

Mom clears away the table once we’re finished, ruffling Arthur’s hair. He flushes crimson, running a hand over his hair to flatten it.

I rise to my feet, pulling him with me. “Come on.”

He lets me let the way, not seemingly bothered by my light hold on his hand.

We vanish back into my room, and he sinks down in front of his backpack.

I flop down on the bed. “So what do you think?”

He shrugs. “I don’t hate it. I’ve had better, but I don’t tend to like most American foods at all.”

I grin. “So you like it?”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “I suppose you could say that, yes.”

I chuckle. “Good.”

His eyes flick towards the door. “Why’d your mom mess up my hair?”

I grin, hard put not to laugh. _Her stamp of approval since she knows you’re my crush? Pretty much._ “Erm. Well...that’s....hard to explain. It’s a sign of affection, I suppose. It’s her way of saying she likes you without saying the words aloud. She never outright says she likes someone, she just ruffles their hair. She does that with me and Dad, too. And her friend Nancy.”

He raises an eyebrow. “My parents just _say_ they like someone.”

I shrug. “It’s just kinda how we roll. Most people I know do that.”

_Besides, you look a-fucking-dorable like that._

Arthur hums, his eyes downcast. “I’m not used to it.”

I smirk. “Get used to it. The more she likes you, the more she’ll do it.”

He yawns and pulls his phone out, firing off a text. “Supper.”

I smile shyly. “Can I come?”

He hesitates before firing off another text. He waits a moment before nodding and pocketing his phone. “Dad says it’s okay. Mum always makes extra, anyway.”

“Mum?”

He flushes scarlet. “Don’t judge me. That’s how it’s pronounced in London.”

I shrug. “Not judging. Just never heard it before.”

He slides off the bed, pulling his backpack on. “Get used to it.”

I grin, pushing out the door. “Mom! It okay if I hang at Arthur’s for supper?”

Kathryn pokes her head out. “Of course sweetie, but be back in time for dinner.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow but refrains from commenting until we’re outside. “Alfredo wasn’t dinner?”

I shake my head. “Snack.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow, heading out into the immigrant, run-down neighborhood. “Whatever.”

I can’t help but grin at that. “You actually pronounce the t’s?”

He glances at me. “And you don’t?”

“Whatever, butter, nadda, not really. Not, don’t, stuff like that, yes.”

He tugs on his backpack straps, his feet angling with a trained step towards his house. “Butter has t’s, not d’s.”

“I know,” I agree. “But despite how it’s spelled, Americans pronounce it like that.”

“Rebellious children,” he mutters.

I grin, falling into step with him. “Pretty much. Isolation and rebellion.”

Arthur hums, heading for the house with a garden out front. Each house is different—one here seems to have daffodils everywhere, whereas the one there has lilies everywhere.

He notices the glance, shrugging. “Everyone here’s emigrated from somewhere. Lilies from Germany, daffodils from Italy, roses from England, tulips from Africa.”

“Cool,” I breathe in awe. _So much diversity in one place. And who are we to give them the shit houses?_

Arthur glances at me, clearly noticing. “What?”

I grin nervously. “Like, there’s just so much _diversity_ in one place. Hell, who are we to give them the shit houses? This is amazing!”

He flushes scarlet, a small smile dancing on his lips. “We all bring a little piece of home with us. It’s harder than people think to just pick up and leave your country behind, even if it’s falling apart at the seams like the Soviet Union did. You grew up there, and usually your kids spent most of their lives there, and it’s difficult to just...leave. But some of us just don’t have a choice.”

I shake my head slowly. “One, that’s crap. You should always have a choice. Two, still amazing. So much diversity and culture all clustered in one place! It’s pretty amazing.”

His blush deepens and he turns up the crumbling driveway of a run-down house with a chunk of the yard given up to bunches of deep, blood red roses.

I scan over everything in awe, my eyes lingering several times on the roses. _Wow. He lives here?_

Arthur pauses, his fingers brushing the roses. “English roses. Still smell like home.”

There’s no fence, despite the fact that the neighborhood seems to be a prime place for robbers and people of that sort. _Curious. Maybe they don’t have fences in England?_

His gaze follows mine. “Poor neighborhood. Don’t really have the money for a fence.”

I glance up. “Isn’t it the kind of place that people steal your shit?”

He shakes his head. “People tend to leave us alone. They tend to target the Italians more often because they’re overly friendly. And usually it’s the Russians who try to steal stuff.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Overly friendly?”

Arthur shrugs. “They’re happy-go-lucky. Always smiling. Well, except Romano. He’s just mean.”

He pulls the door open, jerking his head. “Come on.”

I head inside, struck by how _clean_ this place is. Even Mom couldn’t manage this. _Wow._

He follows me in, closing the door and tossing his backpack down the hall.

The thud it makes on impact causes a tall man in a business suit with Arthur’s structure and hair color—despite his hair being soft and flat rather than messy like Arthur’s—to pop out of what looks to be a dining room.

He smiles faintly, lifting a hand. “Ready when you are, son.”

He’s got the same accent as Arthur—only his voice is deeper and more gravelly.

Arthur inclines his head. “’Kay.”

He vanishes back in. Arthur slides his shoes off. “Shoes off. No shoes in the house.”

I raise an eyebrow but slide my shoes off without protest. He heads down the hall, dumping his backpack in a ratty old office chair that’s dumped in front of a rickety, chipped old desk with an old, slow computer dropped on it precariously. He shakes his head, using his foot to nudge the chair back in.

I raise an eyebrow. “Really old stuff.”

He flushes scarlet. “Also old, _and_ cheap quality and price. We didn’t have that much money to spend for several years. Hazard of moving someplace new with a different currency.”

I shove my glasses back up my nose. “Sounds difficult.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, pulling his phone out and dropping it on the desk. “It is. They _try_ to make it difficult to become an American to prevent terrorists from getting in. Have to pay hundreds of dollars to become legal citizens, then spend three or four years earning back what you lost before you can actually get a house, settle down, and start to have a life.”

“Three or four years before you can get a _house_?” I raise an eyebrow. “Meaning you were homeless when you got here?”

He fidgets, pushing hair out of his eyes. “You could say that. My mum prefers to call it ‘on our way’.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s being too generous.”

Arthur flushes scarlet, crossing his arms. “You haven’t been there, don’t judge.”

I shake my head. “Not judging. Just...seriously. Total bullshit.”

He rolls his eyes. “Like I don’t know that.”

There’s an awkward silence before he pushes his glasses back up, sighing. “My parent’s worst ‘pet peeve’...never put your elbows on the table. A _gentleman_ doesn’t do that. Also, no shoes in the house. And use manners, don’t just reach for food if you want it. You have to be all polite, like ‘would you pass the sugar’ and stuff like that. They’re _proper_ Brits, and that’s how a meal is done in London.”

I shrug. “I can try. But I grew up that way. Old habits are hard to break, so they say.”


End file.
